Teacup and teapot with tea time toe lettering

The lorry in front of me has been idling for an hour, and I have the box on my knees because I don't trust the boot. Inside is Nan's tea service, the blue one with the little dots, and the teapot with the pink rose painted on its lid. You always thought it was too fussy. I think I finally understand it, sitting here with the engine ticking and the sea doing nothing useful beside us.

When the officer finally reached my window, he asked what I was carrying. I said it was a tea set going back to Aunt Vi in Calais, who gave it to Nan in 1961 after the two of them fell out over a green dress. He lifted the lid, looked at the rose for a long moment, and said his mother had one just like it, though hers had a chip in the spout. I told him Nan's had never been chipped, only wrapped in newspaper and sulked over. He laughed and asked if it would break on the road. I said only if somebody was careless or cross.

Do you remember Mum shouting tea time from the back step whenever the kettle went on? We'd come running across the grass with our knees green, and she'd pretend she hadn't heard us. The word on Nan's old tin label always made me think of those afternoons, the tea and the time written out in a slanted hand, with a little heart pressed between them like a thumbprint.

He waved me through without another question. I drove on with the box belted into the passenger seat, the heater ticking and the cups rattling their small careful music. Tell Vi the cups are coming home. Tell her the kettle is on.